Damnation
by Louisia
Summary: She wants nothing more than peace when all her life has been fighting. She thinks she finds a kindred spirit and within it, her hard-bought reprieve; until she discovers that he is the source of her nightmares.
1. Introductions: Prisoner

_One ship drives east and another drives west  
With the selfsame winds that blow.  
Tis the set of the sails  
And not the gales  
Which tells us the way to go.  
Like the winds of the seas are the ways of fate,  
As we voyage along through the life:  
Tis the set of a soul  
That decides its goal,  
And not the calm or the strife._

**Prisoner**

The familiar clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone wasn't what woke her, nor was it the constant swaying and jolting that came with riding on a horse-drawn carriage. It wasn't even the loud, throbbing pain pounding on her skull from the inside, though it certainly wasn't helping matters. No, what caused her to stir had, in fact, been the trembling voice of a terrified passenger who was complaining an awful lot.

"Damn Stormcloaks. Everything was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy."

There was a small breeze that brushed the hair from her face and raised a chill all over her skin. What had happened to her tunic?

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief."

She tried to open her eyes but it damn near killed her to do it. She squinted to let in as little light as she could, hoping to make sense of her surroundings. Everything was foggy, blurring in and out of focus.

"Hey, you; you're finally awake!"

She heard the voice clearly enough; it practically bounced around in her head. However neither the words nor their meaning were fully registering to her. The most she could muster in reply was a noncommittal grunt.

"You okay? You were hit pretty hard," the voice spoke again, this time softer.

Okay? Not in the slightest. She was in pain. She ached everywhere. And she was tired; so very tired. But she needed to know where she was and what was happening. She was far from lucid, and that wasn't especially safe.

She forced her head up to look around and instantly regretted it; a deafening ring phased in and out with the sudden head rush, and she only caught bits and pieces of what her 'brothers in binds' were saying.

"...Imperial ambush, same as us..."

"...what's with him?"

"Watch your tongue! You're speaking to..."

"...where are they taking us! ?"

"...Sovngarde awaits."

Sovngarde. The resting place of dead souls.

She should have figure it out sooner. She was being sent to her death. That certainly clarified quite a bit.

"General Tulius, sir! The Headsman is waiting!"

"General Tulius, the military governor," one of the voices spat. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this."

Her vision was slowly beginning to clear, and she looked across from her to see a blond Nord in a blue cuirass, his hands bound before him and his neck craned to the left to catch a better glimpse of everything. To the right of him was another Nord, covered in dirt and wearing what amounted to a cloth sack. He was frantically whispering under his breath; prayers of some sort, to be sure. And next to herself...

Yet another Nord, albeit a rather decorated one. His mouth was bound as well as his hands, which struck her as odd. He didn't look like a particularly loud one to her, and what real harm could a man's voice do anyway? His mane was thick and wild, with twigs and leaves poking out from it in odd places, reminiscent of some feral beast, while his broad, square posture gave him the look of a man in power. The massive, boastful fur resting atop his shoulders made her feel naked in just her smallclothes, and it suddenly occurred to her as she eyed this man that there was something terribly familiar about him.

As she tried to place him, he caught her gaze. She froze, like an elk after spotting a predator. His brow furrowed and she shook herself out of her thoughts, looking away from him and forward. They'd entered a small village, and people were piling out of their homes and shops to catch a glimpse of the prisoners.

"This is Helgen," the first Nord began. "Used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the Juniper Berries mixed in."

He paused to listen to the silence. As if to herald their doom, not even the birds had taken up song this morning. "Funny. Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

They passed under a stone archway, and she spotted the chopping block in the center of the courtyard. Nothing like a pubic execution to give the poor, unfulfilled souls of this place a reason to keep toiling.

The soldier driving the carriage called for the horse to stop, and all four passengers lurched forward at the abruptness.

"W-why are we stopping?" The sack-wearing thief stammered.

The first Nord slowly got to his feet, along with the man in the furs. "Why do you think?" He asked. "End of the line."

She watched as the thief's lip trembled, clearly torn between outrage and fear; though he, too, go to his feet. She remained seated, if for no other reason than that she was certain were she to stand, she'd just fall back down again anyway. The guards would simply have to drag her out.

However, her prompting was not made by guards, but by the first Nord. "Come," he said proudly. "Let's not keep the Gods waiting for us, hm?"

Humbled by his brave front and idealistic pride, she assented and followed his lead off the wagon.

"Proceed to the block as your name is called."

"Empire loves their damn lists," he muttered, earning a grim smile from her.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The man in the furs stepped forth, and proceeded to the line of bound men and women already assembled, all in blue cuirasses.

That name. She'd heard it in taverns and on the streets. Was this really _the _Ulfric Stormcloak? Rebel and kingslayer? Perpetual thorn in the Imperials' side? She stood on her tip-toes to catch a better look over the first Nord's shoulder. So they caught him, huh? Either the Empire was better than she gave them credit for, or the Rebel was worse than she'd have expected.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The first Nord walked to the line. Ralof, huh? If she was indeed worthy of Sovngarde, she'd make it a point to seek him out there.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

He'd been nervous and twitchy the entire time she'd been awake, so it came as no surprise to her – to _anyone_, really – that the thief bolted the moment his name was called. It was even less surprising when an arrow caught him in the back of the neck and sent him crumpling to the ground.

"Anyone _else _feel like running?" The Imperial Captain asked, sounding a bit cocky. The scribe standing next to her didn't give the incident much attention, as his eyes were already on the last prisoner from the carts; the only one he didn't have a name for.

"Wait," he said with a small frown. Had he skipped a name somewhere? No, they were all accounted for; somewhere along the way they'd managed to pick up an extra prisoner. Strange. He looked up; she was watching him with wary eyes.

"Who... are you?"


	2. Chapter 1: Preparing

_***When I first published this, there were no bars to separate scenes. This is now fixed.**_

_There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,  
Can circumvent or hinder or control  
The firm resolve of a determined soul.  
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;  
All things give way before it, soon or late.  
What obstacle can stay the mighty force  
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,  
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?  
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.  
Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate  
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,  
Whose slightest action or inaction serves  
The one great aim. Why, even Death stands still,  
And waits an hour sometimes for such a will. _

**Preparing**

"Do you know what you're doing with that?" The question was fearful; tense. The blacksmith could tell by the way she twirled and danced with the blade that she wasn't very experienced.

"What's there to know? You pick a target and then-" she stabbed at the air in demonstration. "Simple."

"That confidence will get you killed, you know."

She sheathed the dagger. "Not the first time someone's told me that. But so far they've all been wrong."

"Wonders never cease. But if you're going to carry a weapon, you ought to know how to use it. My nephew's a soldier, come to stay for a few days. I could ask him to show you some tricks."

She smiled, "Thank you, but I have a soldier friend myself. I can ask him if I need to."

"You need to," Alvor deadpanned.

The young woman didn't seem to hear him as she fished through her satchel. "How much?" she asked, pulling out a small handful of septims.

Alvor looked at her earnest expression, and then down to the sparse sum in her palm. "Keep it. And the helmet, too; maybe you'll remember me when you're making Skyforge steel, hm?"

* * *

"You said _dragon_, yes? As in, big, fanged, winged beasts? That breathe fire?"

"I didn't realize 'dragon' might describe anything else."

Galmar crossed his arms. "Dragons are extinct."

"If this is so, my friend, then my mind has an amazing talent for trickery." His words suggested mirth but his eyes held none. Galmar Stone-Fist had known Ulfric for decades, and the particular expression he was reading told him all he needed to know of his Jarl's report.

Jorleif and Yrsarald were sitting at the banquet table, watching the exchange. When the Jarl had returned with only a fraction of the men he'd left with, looking like he'd traversed Oblivion in the few short days he'd been gone, they'd expected quite a tale – so the bit about an Imperial ambush and Ulfric being sent to his execution certainly met their expectations, and _then _some. Which was why, when it came to the matter of his escape, his mention of dragons seemed apropos of absolutely nothing.

"By the nine. A _dragon_. In Skyrim. As if we didn't have enough concerning us with the war; did the beast die?"

Ulfric took his place in his throne, "Not that I saw. The legion's presence in Helgen wasn't sufficient for the task of slaying such a thing, and they were unprepared all the same. Perhaps it was felled after my leave, but I don't think so."

"A _dragon_," Galmar said again. His eyes glazed over for a moment in thought, and the hall remained quiet as each man considered the meaning of this.

Did the elves have a hand in this? It seemed possible; they might stand to gain from keeping the Jarl of Windhelm alive. But surely there would have been more convenient ways of doing so? And if they had dragons at their disposal, why not use them in battles? Unless it was just the one, in which case he could understand why they'd want to use it sparingly. While it seemed quite a stretch to think the Aldmeri Dominion was hiding a dragon, the circumstances as they stood seemed awfully convenient. This was a matter worth investigating.

"But this will have to wait," the housecarl interrupted his own thoughts as well as those of the others. "There is a war to plan, and I wanted to talk to you about Whiterun."

* * *

Her name was Nea. A strange name for a Nord, but from the way she spoke and acted he'd already gathered that she wasn't from these parts. All the same, she seemed honorable enough - and she _had_ saved his life.

"You should go to Windhelm," he said, breaking the silence. They were sitting on barrels postponing the work they'd been asked to do. A few apple cores lay scattered at their feet.

"You think I should join the rebellion."

"Damned right! Jarl Ulfric could use someone like you!"

To this she laughed. "Someone like me? I'm no warrior, Ralof. And besides, this isn't my country, or my war."

"But you're a Nord," he countered. "Skyrim is home to all Nords."

She preoccupied herself by kicking the barrel with her heels, watching her feet as they bounced forward and backward rhythmically. "Skyrim is home to all kinds. But not to me."

"Where is _your_ home, then?"

There was a long silence and he briefly wondered if he'd need to repeat the question. Then she raised her arm and pointed upward, all the while never tearing her eyes from her boots.

A puzzling gesture. "Your home is the sky?"

"I guess." She wasn't trying to be evasive, but she wasn't being particularly informative either.

"What's that mean? Don't you know where you're from?"

"I've never been sure. The stars... it's something someone told me a long time ago. That I was born in the stars. I always thought they meant I was from a different world. But the older I got, the more ridiculous I realized that sounded. Now I don't know what to think."

Ralof watched her kick, "You never asked your family?"

She let out a puff of air. "They weren't around to ask."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

She snorted, as if she found something really funny. "Don't be. I didn't really know them; they didn't mean anything to me then, and they certainly don't now."

Ralof felt like he'd struck a nerve, though she played the stoic pretty damn well. He wasn't sure why he was so curious; her past and her family were her business. While the woman herself intrigued him, he knew that some lines were not to be crossed.

She hopped off her barrel and picked up an axe. "Let's just finish up. I don't want to be stuck chopping wood after dark."

* * *

Gerdur ushered Frodnar and Hod to the table, "I cooked dinner, the least you could do is sit down to eat it."

Nea and Ralof had taken their seats some time ago, chatting idly over mead for much of the evening. When their conversation turned slowly back to Helgen, Gerdur spoke up. "I had a favor to ask on that point, brother, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Anything," Ralof grinned childishly at Frodnar, who was trying to get Stump to sit at the table with him.

"Riverwood is defenseless. We're shopkeeps and smiths and lumbermen, not soldiers. I know you'll be leaving soon, and I was hoping on your way to Windhelm you could visit Jarl Balgruuf and tell him we need guards here."

"I could do it," Nea said. "I've been meaning to go to Whiterun as it is. Look for work, get a horse. It'd be the least I could do."

"Well, that makes it easier. I would have gone for you, Gerdur, but that Jarl of yours is a problem all on his own, catch him on a bad day. And there have been plenty of bad days lately."

Nea frowned, "Should I be worried?"

Ralof clapped her on the back, "Nah. He's nicer to women. He's not a patient man when it comes to Stormcloaks is all, and there's a chance he'd know me if he saw me."

"Oh." Gerdur placed a hot bowl of stew in front of her, and she watched as everyone relaxed into their meal. She'd enjoyed the time she spent with Ralof and his sister's family, but she knew she'd need to leave soon. She didn't want to intrude any longer than she already had.

She would depart in the morning.

"Hey, Ralof? Could you teach me to work a dagger?"

* * *

It was the next morning and Ralof was returning from up the road when his nephew caught him, winded. "Ma... wants you. Right now. Important," he heaved, pointing to the lumber mill.

"What...?" he picked up the pace, leaving his nephew to catch his breath.

"Gerdur?" He questioned when he reached her, " What is it? Frod said-"

"Where's your friend?"

Ralof stopped, "Nea? I just saw her off. She's on her way to-"

"Shh!" She hushed him. "Brother, some men came by. Looking for _her._"

His heart jumped a little in his throat. "Who were they?"

"I don't know, but I didn't like them. They had weapons and looked like an unpleasant sort, so I just said I never saw her. But they asked _everyone,_ and I don't know what they told them."

"Are they still here?"

"No, they praise Talos they didn't stay long. They went up the north path a little after you."

"I didn't pass anyone on the road."

"Ralof, there _were _men here, and that girl could be in danger. You need to warn her!" Gerdur threw her hands in the air, "Get going!"

And so Ralof turned right back around and sprinted up the north road as fast as he could manage.

* * *

She could see the massive city already, and she wasn't even five minutes out of Riverwood. She was wearing a freshly washed set of robes she'd picked up off the corpse of a mage in the dungeon at Helgen. They were rather cozy, now that she'd gotten the dead body smell out.

Her satchel was slung thoughtlessly over her shoulder. Gerdur had made her lunch, and a lot of bread in case she didn't find work right away. She had about a hundred Septims from working at the mill that would get her a bed at an inn for a few nights, and a hot meal if she could spare the coin. The dagger Alvor had let her keep was tied to her belt and swung with each step she took. She felt a little like an adventurer; maybe she should consider a life on the road.

"Hey!" The shout came, and startled her. She turned to see Ralof coming back up the road, and almost laughed. He was red in the face, and wheezing like an old man.

"Did I forget something?" She asked when he got close enough.

"No, I-" he looked around suspiciously before turning back to her, "I just decided I'd go with you. I haven't been to the city in a while."

"I- um... really?" She wasn't convinced. Until now, Ralof hadn't shown any interest in visiting Whiterun. In fact, he'd made it a point _not _to do so. There was something he wasn't telling her. Looking around herself, she opted to quiz him about it later. His sudden arrival and on-edge demeanor left a pit of foreboding swirling in her stomach, and all she wanted now was to get somewhere defensible and watch the exits for a few hours.

As they continued down the road together, trying not to call attention to the sudden unease settling on the air, the sun grew higher over the mountains and illuminated an otherwise dark figure emerging from the trees onto the path behind them.

**I don't suppose I could get someone to volunteer as a Beta-Reader for this story, could I?**

**Also, please review! See that big box, right below these words you're reading right now? Just type a quick 'hi' so I know you're there, wouljda? Thanks a bunch! :)**


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